


once the lights are on

by aosc



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a seismic shift in how he gets to move - how he gets to behave. Or, Sebastian, from the <i>Toro Rosso</i>, to the Scuderia Ferrari.</p>
            </blockquote>





	once the lights are on

* * *

 

It is not that Sebastian doesn't know Ferrari - of course he knows _Ferrari_.

 

He knows last season's car, how it teeters on the edge of top DRS speed, how it spins off the track, in front of him, too close for comfort in open practice in 2013, how Alonso pivots it on the outside and revs up past him on Monza, a slick trail of red and white, like an arterial puncture over an open wound. He knows it from Schumi's time, and from watching old, vignetted tapes back from Niki Lauda's day, from earlier - Gigi Villoresi, Phil Hill, the round nosed, dark red car of the 1950's and 60's he still remembers that he had plastered as scraggly old posters to his bedroom door.

 

He knows the team from getting up, close, personal, to Alonso, after Monza back in '11, explaining that there is a _rule_ , and you can't just - and Maurizio had looked at him, one eyebrow slanted coolly, gently shoving Alonso from the scene. He'd shook his head. "Go back to your celebrations, _Signore_ Sebastian," Maurizio said, and turned away from Sebastian.

 

He knows them briefly from visiting Schumi in the pit a couple of times, wide eyed - _young_ , marveling at the world, and the fame, and the machinery of the cars.

 

But he doesn't know Ferrari. He knows Red Bull, and the blinding white hunger of being a young team, a part of a young group, where the moon is barely breaking the speed limit, the milky way the track. There is nothing Christian can't do, nothing he cannot do with Helmut in the mic in his ear, telling him, _box, box, Sebastian; we're switching to mediums to keep you ahead for the final twenty three_ , which has him cruising, too easy, the car a slick, smooth operation that rumbles beneath him. The team, walking him through the engine, the cockpit, the specs, before 2014. Telling him that this is going to be hard - this isn't like it used to be. _Adrian's worked with what we've got, we'll see how it measures up to the rest of the field_.

 

Ferrari, it's old blood, old royalty. It is the longest serving, the longest living - a behemoth. And he accepts it with the blind eagerness of someone who was fostered by Red Bull, and only saw the pressure Schumi ever permitted him to see. A tight smile after a race lost, a senior man's reflexes slowing, his edge blunt. But Schumi is always Schumi, and of course, Ferrari would always want him.

 

What Sebastian thinks, when he inks the contract, is that this is the sixtine chapel of racing. This is his dream, his older self's dream. This is what should be revered, this is biblical.

 

*

 

He meets his chief executives as a four time world champion. Maurizio smiles at him, shakes his hand, laughs with him - he meets Simone Resta, who's designed the upcoming SF15-T, the mill of people who takes care of her, who polish and tune and test and switch engine comps, who have worked on the seat and on the curvings on the cockpit and on how Sebastian's palms will mold over the steering wheel, how to best position the buttons as to accommodate for the time it will take him to press them if the slant to the left versus of the are tipped slightly downwards in position to the wheel. There is a myriad of people who do it, and it's not any different, really, to Red Bull -

 

But it is.

 

Red Bull is new money, new opportunities, branching off into skiing and extreme sports and music. Ferrari is - tradition. Blood.

 

He meets his chief executives as four time world champion. Leaves them with Maurizio's cautioning, "This is not, Sebastian, what you have previously been a part of. This is not - Red Bull Racing. This is _Ferrari_."

 

_This is Ferrari_ , echoes down his spine, reverberates in his gut. This is Ferrari, and you are now a part of her tradition, of her reverence, of her DNA.

 

*

 

He spends the winter almost exclusively in Switzerland, takes Hanna and the girls skiing; celebrates New Years' in Luzern, hires a small villa overlooking the rural, non-iced Vierwaldstätterseen, squall with mid-winter waves. He tries not to think too much of the impending pre-season, harshening out his bi-daily training programme until it's a daily occurrence again. He wonder what it'll be like, beneath the rule of a different regime.

 

*

 

Kimi tips his - identical - hat forward over the rims of his Frogskins, and tilts a small, barely there smile at Sebastian. " _Moi_ ," he rasps, as amicable as the Finn is ever.

 

Sebastian inclines his head, "Back on track, eh," he says.

 

Kimi grunts, overlooking Jerez, the midday splash of orange sun bathing the curved track. "Almost on track," he corrects.

 

Sebastian snorts, "Alright, fine," he says. "Are you excited - being back in red?"

 

Kimi hums. "Well, yes," he says, "Maybe so. We'll see."

 

*

 

He's seen Ricciardo around a couple of times, the Toro Rosso rookie with the curled Perth accent and the wide smile, but they've never been formally introduced, until now.

 

"Daniel," Ricciardo - Daniel, says, "It's incredibly nice to meet you, Sebastian." His words slant on _incredibly_ , and _nice to meet you,_ and on _Sebastian_. Sebastian nods, grasps his hand and returns the greeting with vigor. "Likewise," he says, and bites his tongue over, _you are the new #2, no_ , and, _you are Mark's replacement_ , and, _I hope you are here to only race_.

 

"Hope we'll have a good one," Ricciardo says, and motions, a little haplessly, about, indicating for the looming '14 pre-season.

 

*

 

"Eva," Sebastian christens the SF15-T, running a hand along her side, down her neck, across the wheel. He'd had it in mind before the first test, before he'd arrived at Jerez - Eva, his maiden run, Ferrari. He nods to himself, and steps half clear of the mechanics swarming in. Ricci bumps their shoulders. "Good name," he grins.

 

"Thanks," Sebastian says, "I think it suits her, no?"

 

Ricci nods, "Suits her - yes. Now we wait, and see if she is worth remembering, too."

 

*

 

Having Daniel as a teammate is not difficult. He is everywhere, tall and smiling, emblazoned hat a little askew, always joking around with his crew - with Sebastian's crew. It takes him three weeks of testing, Jerez and Bahrain and flights to England for endless simulator runs in Milton Keynes, with Daniel next to him on the plane, across the technical office, going for low-five, high-five, laughing, with Sebastian, before he accepts that there is nothing about him that saws off-kilter and harsh, like Mark usually did.

 

Daniel is easy, easy company. Young, yes, but not like he doesn't _get_ it.

 

"Oi, Seb," he says, and kicks out at Sebastian's chair, long legs previously folded beneath his seat, semi-comfortable for the long video session they'd had scheduled. Sebastian turns, frowning, flipping him off. "Keep your kangaroo legs and your _Aussie_ to yourself, man," he mutters.

 

Daniel grins. "Water bottle, man, 's all I was going to ask for," He waves two hands in front his face, "See, this's my proverbial white flag."

 

Sebastian rolls his eyes, but stretches forward for a logo-tapered bottle put on a circular table just ahead of him. He chucks it over his head, aiming somewhat for where Daniel is tall enough to snap it out of the air.

 

A few nearby crew members chuckle, and Sebastian twists slightly to the left to see Jonathan's shoulders shaking, his face partially hidden in the cross of his arms.

 

Dan, at the front of the room, pointing to the projected image of the aero specs of the RB10, clears his throat, "Are we all done down there, Dan, Seb?" he asks, but there is an amused tilt to his face.

 

*

 

You cannot be picky in regards to who you're stuck working with. Not in this sport, not with the expectations that it carries. Sebastian has worked with geniuses, hit it off with prodigies, torn his hair over old legends, and arrived here - at the Maranello, infamous, grand, cherry red and looming.

 

"Here we are," Kimi says, deadpan, and kills the ignition. Sebastian rolls his eyes, this guy never had any sense of drama, any sense of - well, anything, besides his blunt edged dry wit. What the press refers to as Kimi's honest streak, often baffled. They're not used to celebrities without a slather of glamour and third dimensional answers to queries.

 

"Thanks, man," Sebastian says, and steps out of the car. The rain smears the windows, darkens his jacket, "Not so fun to ride a bike in this weather."

 

Kimi shrugs.

 

Mattia meets them at the entrance, his easy smile and easy likening to Sebastian has made him the one Sebastian isn't still particularly wary, when facing, apart from Kimi. "Kimi, Sebastian," he smiles, and carves up a hole in the midst of them, leading the way with one arm at Sebastian's back, one hovering over Kimi's.

 

The Maranello is state of the art. Ahead of its time. "nZEB is already being implemented, or - an idea, is," Mattia says, and shows them, with a sweep of his arm each time, the floors, the rooms, the grand arches of ceiling over the production centre.

 

"Amazing," Sebastian breathes, "It's - unbelievable."

 

At Mattia's far side, Kimi simply remains silent.

 

*

 

They take Malaysia.

 

It's such a fucking _relief_ , and Sebastian laughs, throwing himself into the crowd of mechs, and technicians, and his and Kimi's pit crews. He breathes, sucks in breath after breath, and hooks the balaclava off, stuffing it half down the front of his overall. His, "Thank you, everyone, you were unbelievable, _grazie_ ," is lost among the cheering, the loosening of a proverbial snare, there since 2013, since Fernando's victory in Spain.

 

Maurizio is there, patting him down the back, his Ferrari heart, beet red and canary yellow, beating a little looser, Sebastian would like to think.

 

Kimi knocks at the back of his head, a curl of knuckles just barely grazing his sweat slick neck, trailing down. Sebastian turns around, still grinning, high on it, dopamine, the fucking feeling of it, and throws his arm around Kimi's shoulders, knocks his temple into Kimi's, still in his helmet. "Nice race," Kimi comments, and pulls himself gently out of Sebastian's crooked arm.

 

"Yeah, sure - thanks," Sebastian says, "You too, Iceman, you know."

 

*

 

Perhaps, it would have made more sense for him to stay in touch with anyone else.

 

Or, correction: Sebastian keeps in touch with most he gets along with. He just never quite expected to get along with Daniel. Never expected it to work out without kinks or bumps, or the one or other press fight.

 

"No, really," Daniel says, smile widening, teeth slipping white in the dull lights, "What's it like? _Really_ \- like, man."

 

Sebastian shrugs, and lips on his lager. " _Really, man_ ," he parrots, sardonically. "It's not like anything. It's racing. Just racing, in Italy, instead of in rainy England."

 

Daniel swigs half of his beer in one mouth. "Yeah, sure, but, it's not the same, is it?" he says.

 

Of course it isn't, Sebastian wants to say. Two races, Maurizio had said, _two races - is our minimum target_. It sounds fair enough, and it is - Sebastian's taken two. Hungary is still a good ache in his legs, in his back, two weeks out; he'd been congratulated, celebrated, he'd done it. But there is an acrid, sharp smell to the regret of not being successful enough, at the Maranello. At stepping into the cathedral, hearing the gospel choirs, and then - nothing. There is no salvation, no _paradiso_ , come _purgatorio_.

 

There is a seismic shift in how he gets to move, how he gets to behave - there.

 

"It's - " Sebastian hesitates. Daniel's mouth quirks, and Sebastian is unsure of how to tell it against that. He grapples with the words, "What's the word for it, when it is, you know - it's so big, the Maranello, and the people, the Italians - "

 

"It's an institution?" Daniel supplies.

 

Sebastian nods. "Yes. Exactly." And then, at the end of the days, Daniel wears his Red Bull blues, and Sebastian doesn't, anymore. "It's different," he says.

 

*

 

"The question remains," Sebastian says, and pats Eva down, "Was she worth it?"

 

Ricci quirks an eyebrow. Sebastian can see a laugh building, his mouth stretching. "Worth it like your _Toro Rosso_ women? I think perhaps that she will do," he says. "She is different, for sure. She is a Ferrari. Nothing else can be said."

 

"No," Sebastian says, "That is true." He helps them pull the tarp over her, last year's model, arterial red and beating in his veins, stocking up close to his heart, pulling deep in his lungs. It is not Red Bull, not what he is borne into. It is what he has transfigured himself into, reworked himself into being.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> ricci, is one of sebastian's race engineers, riccardo adami. the one he sung tanti auguri to during the '15 abu dhabi GP. 
> 
> basically, i was never, ever into rpf, but here i am. two fics in one day isn't even my gig, but now that racing season's all in gear again, this apparently comes naturally to me.


End file.
